


Brookland House

by Ark



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Arranged Marriage, British Lords, Early Nineteenth Century Problems, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Lots of Sex, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sex, Tropes, Wedding Night, vaguely steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3266018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You seem distressed, my angel. Are you not pleased with the match? The word from court is that Lord James Barnes is an upstanding gentleman, not given to the wild circles around the Prince Regent. And Steve, it was he who asked for you. The young man has kept you in mind all these years -- despite our circumstances.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fun stuff started on [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com). Thank you for your enthusiasm and encouragement, friends.

His Lady Mother brings the tidings, slipping quietly into his sick room. She draws back the heavy velvet drape of the bed curtain, letting in the first light Steve has seen for days.

“Steven.” She drops lightly beside him, running a hand through his hair, cool against his fevered brow. Her other hand clutches a letter writ on fine vellum. “Steve, can you wake up for me, my dove?”

Steve obliges; he’s stronger than he’s felt in days, the latest attack of pneumonia survived, though barely. This time was close: priests attended his doctors. Still, he came through. He smiles to show her that he’s well now. “Mother?”

“Such news,” Lady Sarah exclaims, reaching for his hand and gripping it, transmitting her excitement. “Such news as we have dreamt for in our hardship. Oh, Steve, beyond a dream!” She brandishes the paper. “Lord Barnes has made an offer for you past all hopes. With his generosity we can afford to keep the estate intact, and all our staff with us, and their children, and their children’s children.” Her voice is tight with happy, unshed tears, and she squeezes his hand again.

Steve has passed many days in fever and delirium. He stares at his mother, suddenly unsure if the sickness has indeed passed, or if she is another hallucination. He struggles to parse the news, feeling the room start to spin anew. “Lord Barnes?” he manages.

“Yes! Such a kind man, a pious goodly one, I always said, and your father agreed with me. Don’t you remember the summer we passed at his house in the city, Steve, when you were a boy?”

“Certainly--”

“Then you will recall his eldest, James. I know you do! How brilliantly the two of you got on as children. When we separated you, you cried and cried. Why, we flirted with the idea of betrothing you then.”

“ _Mother--_ ”

“You seem distressed, my angel. Are you not pleased with the match? The word from court is that Lord James Barnes is an upstanding gentleman, not given to the wild circles around the Prince Regent. And Steve, it was he who asked for you. The young man has kept you in mind all these years -- despite our circumstances.”

Steve closes his mouth, now at a total loss for words. His heart is beating fast enough to call for the doctors. He shuts his eyes. “Mother. Lord Barnes’ offer is an honor most pleasing to me, and his son demonstrates a measure of goodwill considering our depleted status that is most endearing.”

He swallows thickly; that was hard enough to struggle through. Now his voice is a whisper: “It is I who am deficient. I can make no sort of husband for a Lord in my state. How will I attend him, when I am frail and weak? I cannot serve him in this body.” His thin, deficient limbs feel a greater betrayal than ever. Steve would fly from this shell if he could, he would give anything to be different than he is.

Lady Sarah smooths his hair again. “The offer came as a result of correspondence,” she informs him, with a small, soft smile. “It was James himself who responded to the letter I sent back on your condition. He assured me that in no way did this alter his choice or intentions towards you, and that in fact it sped them; and he wished you to be brought to London with all haste, so as to have the attention of the best doctors he can collect.”

Wind and speech are knocked from Steve again, but a new, hopeful warmth suffuses him. He opens his eyes.

“Here.” From the pocket of her dress Lady Sarah draws out an enameled brooch and hands it over. Her smile has turned sly. “This was sent with the offer of marriage.”

A miniature portrait is painted of a young man in profile. He is exceptionally handsome, with dark hair stylishly arrayed, a perfectly square jaw, bold blue eyes, and a smile that blazes forth friendship and heat.

Steve’s hand curls around the brooch. “Yes,” he says. “My answer is yes.”

 

* * *

 

One week later a retinue is dispatched to bring Steve and his mother to London for the wedding.

Steve is thrilled to be in good health for the trip, good enough to pretend he’s always this rosy-cheeked. He has begun taking greater pains with his appearance, adding shine to his blond hair with oil, and using other oils to soften and scent his skin.

Whenever he starts to think about his soon-to-be husband uncovering him, touching him, he flames red all over. Steve at twenty is hardly an innocent intellectually; he’s read many, many books, often during his long periods of convalescence. He knows what to expect, he thinks; that is why he sees red.

After an extended, endless, clattering journey in which Steve’s stomach does a repeated cartwheel, they arrive in the oldest square in Knightsbridge -- and the most costly, of course. Lord Barnes’ “secondary estate” is a stately white-brick city mansion, an enormous ancient pile. Steve views it through the glass with growing anxiety; he can see a welcoming party gathered to meet them in the courtyard.

When the carriage-door swings open, however, Steve can breathe again -- it is not his intended, but Lord Barnes himself, come with greetings. Lord Barnes is blighted with old age but still spirited, welcoming Steve with a hearty handshake and embracing Lady Sarah warmly. At his side is a lovely young woman with the same smile that’s on the brooch in Steve’s breast pocket.

When last he saw her, Rebecca Barnes was a mere babe in arms, but now she is tall and graceful, a blossom in full bloom. She steps up to throw her arms around Steve’s neck, and embrace him with the scent of wildflowers.

“Brother,” she says to Steve, with laughing eyes, “James sends his deepest regrets that he cannot be here to greet you. He was called to court this morning on a most urgent matter--”

The sound of a horse set at full canter echoes loudly before the source of the sound gallops into view. A rider cloaked in dark blue, on a pale bay horse, enters the courtyard at full speed, barreling for the party. Quite close, the horse rears up in excitement, and is expertly kneed obedient. The rider dismounts with showy grace.

He flips back his hood, revealing bright eyes and wind-tossed hair, and there, in the flesh, the enormous smile on red, red lips. His smile radiates joy and welcome, and also suggests that he could swallow Steve whole where he stands. James Barnes, with an entrance that takes Steve’s breath away.

James paces towards him, then drops solemnly to one knee before Steve. Everyone is watching, and Steve knows that a hot red flush is creeping across his cheeks. He stares down at the dark halo of James’ hair, surprised when his fingers twitch with the desire to touch. 

Then James is touching him, rising to his feet and seizing Steve’s wrist. He presses a reverent kiss to the back of Steve’s hand. His mouth is hot and daringly open: was that his tongue? Steve wants to laugh, then, and stare and stare, and kiss him back, but he can’t say anything at all. Steve’s been struck by lightning.

“Lord Rogers,” says James Barnes. “I felt it imperative that I should be the one to escort you into your new home. I hope you will find our humble comforts to your pleasure.”

“The sentiment is appreciated, Lord Barnes. You outdo yourself in chivalry.” Steve manages to produce the words after practicing them a few times in his head.

James smiles at him, and oh, the portrait and the first look hadn’t done him justice. He is an exquisite example of a man, tall and strong and well-made, his face so strikingly beautiful that Steve thinks he looks familiar; he’s sketched many young gods and heroes that look like James Barnes.

There are traces of the clever, mischievous boy Steve remembers playing with, in the laugh-lines around his eyes. His smile glows with brilliant warmth and unbridled enthusiasm; Steve can see already that he is a good man, but a man used to getting his way.

Steve smiles back with all the nervous, impassioned excitement he feels, and thinks they’ll have to see about that. If James requires some reining in, Steve will show them all that he’s much bigger than he looks. Stubborn, too. Persistent, and persuasive. Steve’s body is afflicted; his spirit is stronger than ever. He lifts James’ hand and presses a kiss in return.

The crowd around them is positively beaming now, and a sea of unfamiliar faces is starting to stream out from the open door.

“May I conduct you into Brookland House, Lord Rogers?” James offers his left arm, and Steve takes it.

“You called me Steve, once.”

“I will again,” murmurs James, in a low register not meant for their parents, who promenade ahead. It’s said with a delicious hint of promise that sends a shiver up and down Steve’s spine. As they pass up the broad steps and over the threshold, he says, “You can call me Bucky.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Bucky speaks, his voice is steady, his blue gaze fixed. He closes his arm on Steve’s hand holding it, captures Steve’s hand against his body. “Steve,” he says. “I must hear you say that tomorrow is what you wish for. I will not bind you to this contract against your choosing.”

Their wedding is to be held three days after Steve’s arrival in London, a Sunday. Hardly time to get to know his intended, yet by the dictates of tradition Steve knows he is lucky to have even a few hours. His mother never saw his father’s face until they were in Church, though she swears she loved him at once.

Steve has no illusions about his situation. He is bought and paid for. Contracts have been signed and money levied between accounts; Steve is an economic transaction parading as person. 

In his fiance’s house, he has no power, no influence, no friends; all the relationships he made in his life are left behind in the country. Worse, he cannot help but dwell on the sore social imbalance of the situation, and worry how outsiders must view Bucky’s decision. Who would trade wealth and influence, all for a near-invalid with a tarnished name like Steven Rogers? 

Handsome, wealthy, and widely adored, Bucky might have had any other groom or bride, at great gain to his personal reputation. Surely his selection of Steve sent out shock-waves of dismayed gossip. 

How can Steve be worth more than what he must have cost?

For reassurance in his turmoil Steve has the testimony he hears from others, that Bucky is kind but also sharp and willful, and knows his own mind better than any man. Steve gets to pass but an hour or two a day in Bucky’s company, as prescribed by current etiquette. It’s a curious sort of courting, Steve thinks, to know that he is already won.

At least the time spent with Bucky -- time spent with Bucky is another world. When they are together, under the benevolent supervision of Steve’s mother, or Bucky’s -- Bucky will offer his arm for a turn in the garden, or a tour of the library, and then it is like they were never parted. They work to elude their chaperones as expertly as when they were children, challenging one another to escalating dares. 

Bucky is finely educated and quick of tongue, light-hearted and humorous, yet given to sudden, intense bouts of seriousness and unwavering focus. He lets slip that he was top of his class at Oxford, where he was a member of every club that could claim him. At his side Steve never passes a dull moment. Bucky has opinions on absolutely everything, only they are most often loose, excitable, elastic passions, and soon enough Steve delights in bending them his way. 

Bucky does not involve himself in the scandals and excesses of court, his honest nature shying naturally from conspiracies; but neither does he use his abundant charisma and many allies to lobby for any policies better than the norm. 

The first time Steve carefully chastises him on this point, testing their waters, Bucky appears surprised, then chagrined. He swears to Steve he will begin keeping a more prudent eye on his affairs, and those of his country; as a married man it can only behoove him to be aware of their legacy. Proud and pleased, Steve presses Bucky’s gloved hands.

They are at their best when speaking of their secret selves, their hidden hopes, the sights they’ve dreamed of seeing; their futures are a topic of ongoing fascination. They are well-matched indeed, they discover, sharing a love of travel beyond ordinary bounds, and a desire for broad adventure and fresh experience. 

Steve’s wanderlust was curtailed by his frequent bouts of illness, but as a result he is an accomplished horseman, horses often serving for his weakened legs. Both he and Bucky love to ride; they rode together as children; when they re-discover it they are lost for the whole second day of their betrothal, while the chaperones race in vain to catch up. 

Whenever they speak of their approaching married state, both are given over to blushing. Even Bucky does not try to conceal it. Instead, he whispers silken suggestions in Steve’s ear when no one is watching, or slips Steve love-notes that must be burned after reading. Three days pass with terrific speed and tortuous slowness.

The night before they are to marry, Bucky leads Steve in their regular figure-eight parade through the garden. Rebecca is supposed to be accompanying them with a companion, making a party of it, but at a glance from Bucky the girls hang back to weave daisy-chains. 

Steve trembles to find them so unguarded; Bucky might say anything. 

When Bucky speaks, his voice is steady, his blue gaze fixed. He closes his arm on Steve’s hand holding it, captures Steve’s hand against his body. “Steve,” he says. “I must hear you say that tomorrow is what you wish for. I will not bind you to this contract against your choosing.”

Steve was expecting one of Bucky’s arch suggestions, given the space alone, and he is startled. He sucks in a breath. He chews his lip, because the words Bucky requests crowd his throat; there are too many of them. Steve wants to shout at him for even suggesting it, and praise Bucky at the same time for one last generous offer. 

Instead, Steve surges forward, and up onto his tiptoes, and seals his mouth over Bucky’s. He kisses Bucky boldly, for precious counted seconds, until he hears feminine giggles erupt behind them. The kiss sets off sparks behind Steve’s eyes and sends radiant heat down to his toes.

Steve falls back from Bucky, but he looks into Bucky’s wide eyes and declares, “I will have no one else.”

“Nor I.” Bucky’s response is immediate and his smile is the sun after a storm. “When we are wed and Brookland our own, I will bring you back here, by the lilies, and remind you of this vow.”

This imagery, more in line with what Steve was anticipating, makes him run hot and flush scarlet. He raises his eyebrows, and opens his mouth to speak, but Rebecca and her friend choose that moment to skip close. The girls cast flower-crowns over their hair, laughing, and insist they wear them back to the house. 

As they stroll arm-in-arm, Steve considers all the ways there are to measure the temperament of a man. Indulging one’s little sister in the jaunty wearing of a daisy circlet is a fine sight to see, and Steve can’t stop grinning. 

He is confident in Bucky already; confidence is fast blazing into deep sentiment. Bucky is still half a stranger, yet Steve has the feeling of knowing him outside and in, of having always known him. It was the same when they were young.

Soon they will be joined in name and deed, and no force of heaven or earth will put them asunder. Steve shivers at the thought. Bucky undoes the ties of his cloak and swings it over Steve’s shoulders to warm him.

 

* * *

 

Steve’s wedding day is a blur. He is to be sequestered from Bucky until church, and is given a host of attendants who bathe, dress and primp him for what feels like hours. After an eternity, Steve, in an elegant tailored navy dress-suit, is ushered to the mirror. 

He is unused to such preparations, and is astonished to find that he looks quite handsome -- the fitted lines are flattering, and accentuate his slender form. From a neat side-part, his golden hair has been coaxed into a gleaming wave. 

One of the maidservants dusted powder over his face from small pots; Steve’s pallor is fashionably pale and his high cheekbones rouge-red. For the first time Steve sees clearly that his face is beautifully composed, and he stares at his reflection in disbelief. He doesn’t recognize himself at all.

His attendants return high praise, and serve to heighten his excitement with their chatter. To the last, they assure him of his good fortune in marrying the young Lord Barnes, the household’s beloved favorite. They line up without prompt to tell Steve of some small personal kindness of Bucky’s on their behalf, so that the swelling of Steve’s heart overtakes the churning nervousness in his belly.

He is bundled into a gilded carriage with his mother, and whisked to church. His gentle mother is a sight to see, appearing twenty years younger in a brilliant emerald dress, her long silver hair done up in pearls. Lady Sarah alternates between exultations and tears as she settles Steve beside her, saying that he’s never looked so well in all his life. Steve kisses her paper-thin cheek. 

Of his soon-to-be husband, Steve is not permitted to glimpse so much as his horse.

Of the ceremony at St. Paul’s, Steve remembers only passing impressions: 

He focuses on slow, even breaths, willing his legs not to fail him today -- only just not today. Sensations overwhelm him: the pungent wreaths of the white flowers hung everywhere, the rainbows of elaborate costumes on courtiers. Jewels on wrists and necks glittering in the light from hundreds of round white candles. Packed pews in the massive church, a choir singing clothed in cloth-of-gold. At the end of the endless marble aisle, Bucky waiting for him. Bucky’s eyes devouring him. 

Bucky wears a dress officer’s uniform, sergeant rank, with ornamental sword and sash. His dark hair is bound back with ribbons in the Barnes colors of black and silver. His carriage is erect, his shoulders squared; he looks like a young Prince set to be crowned King before the altar. Instead, he holds out his gloved hands for Steve. Steve receives him.

When Steve reaches out, Bucky’s serious expression breaks into a dazzling, relieved smile. Steve finds himself echoing it, drawing strength from Bucky’s grip. Steve assumes his place opposite Bucky, and squeezes his hands. 

They try to flatten their mouths, try to stop smiling, to match the sombre air of the ceremony, but only half-succeed. While the Bishop is speaking and speaking about the bonds of holy matrimony, and the heavy weight of their new duty to one another, Bucky winks at Steve. 

They repeat lengthy vows, and Steve is glad to hear his voice emerge strong and sure. Bucky speaks the words with passionate conviction, his eyes on Steve and only for him, as though they are alone in the church at the end of the world.

Then the Bishop is announcing them -- “Before God and with the blessings of the Crown, I present the Lords James and Steven Barnes!” and though it may appear to the observers that Bucky steps in to buss Steve’s mouth, triumphant, it is Steve who steps first.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His husband! The ride back from church was the most exhilarating of Steve's life. A carriage just for them, no chaperones for married pairs. Married! Bucky took Steve into his arms, and kissed his mouth the whole way to Brookland. Steve could have quite done without the wedding-feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to mention that this whole madness was inspired by this wonderful [photoset](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com/post/109219606295/villainsexuale-youneedtostrut-holiday) involving steve and bucky in frock coats
> 
> thank you all for your encouragement i adore you come say hey on [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) we'll talk frocks

The feast is harder to bear than the ceremony, such is Steve’s growing anxiety and anticipation. He and Bucky are sat in tall chairs at an enormous oak table in the ballroom at Brookland House, and toasted and feted and fed savory things. 

Steve’s stomach is jittery; he only eats when Bucky whispers that he should consider it, and picks the choicest cuts from each passing platter for Steve’s plate. Already Steve can deny his husband nothing.

His husband! The ride back from church was the most exhilarating of his life. A carriage just for them, no chaperones for married pairs. Married! Bucky took Steve into his arms, and kissed his mouth the whole way to Brookland. Steve could have quite done without the wedding-feast. 

The only scene he will recall thereafter is the way they danced. Bucky is a skillful dancer, and with him leading Steve can feign grace. They sway and spin together to the applause of the party, lead the crowd in the popular favorites, then suddenly -- unaccountably, and at long last -- they are being pulled apart, to be conducted to bed.

Steve’s heart is back in his throat, and he has the same coterie of servants who dressed him, arrived for the opposite purpose. They strip off his suit dispassionately, and rub his skin with scented creams. Perfume dabs his pulse-points. 

Steve finds himself speechless, half-listening to the naughty, cheerful input of his helpers. An imposing maidservant, their chief, inspects him closely. She pulls an ivory nightshift over his head. She holds up the silver silk dressing robe edged in black, draping it over Steve’s shoulders. Steve puts his arms in and she moves around to knot the front.

She has flame-red hair in a practical coif and a neatly kept uniform, nothing to draw undue attention. She leans close and away faster than Steve can process, her voice melodic and her accent foreign. 

“Be kind to him,” she whispers in Steve’s ear. Then she is halfway across the room, and Steve is clothed for bed.

Steve stares after her. The choice of words fascinates him. That anyone should look to him to succor Bucky! She said it as though the matter might be in doubt. He wishes he could tell her is already incapable of cruelty where his husband is concerned, that Bucky has won him and secured his affection. But Steve is frantically trying to calm his racing pulse. In the mirror he looks luminescent, made of pale silvers and golds. He closes his eyes when a resoundant knock hammers the door. 

If they expect Steve to cower or slink on his way, he surprises them by hurrying to the door. He throws it open.

Bucky still wears his uniform, and Steve finds that he is not disappointed -- he has thought all day about unknotting the sash across Bucky’s jacket. Bucky’s shirt is open at the collar, his hair spilled from its ribbons: he has no doubt been rough-housing with his friends. Steve can hear them chorusing drunken verses in the distance. 

“Lord Barnes,” says Bucky to Steve. He gives a courtly bow, to the sighs of the watching servants. Then he bends once more, and scoops Steve into his arms, as though Steve were a prized sack of feathers. He turns without another word and kicks the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

Bucky carries him through Brookland House. The hallways have been cleared for them, the only watchers old family portraits between the lanterns on the walls. Bucky knows every stair and passageway, strides without hesitation. Steve buries his face against Bucky’s neck and smells sweat and lavender. 

Bucky’s momentum stills at the entrance to their prepared suite. In his arms, Steve is trembling. One moment more, the dividing line between solitary and joined lives.

Bucky says, “Know that I am yours until the end,” and then he steps over the threshold with Steve in his arms.

Another door is closed behind them. The suite is sparse -- the bare necessities in luxurious living, with the expectation that they will soon choose furnishings to their taste. The rooms are filled with flowers and wedding-presents and in the bedroom, many candles are lit.

Bucky seems loathe to put Steve down, and when he does there is an awkward moment, Steve sliding down Bucky’s body; but Steve twines his arms around Bucky’s neck, and Bucky kisses him, and Steve is the happiest he’s ever been in his entire life. They are together in their own bedroom, married, with nothing left to come between them. 

Steve’s total happiness lasts several kiss-stung minutes. Then Bucky is putting his hands over Steve’s, loosening Steve’s grip. Bucky steps back.

“Gentle, gentle,” Bucky laughs, trying to make a joke of it, but Steve can only feel the lack of him, his grin in the face of Steve’s ardor. 

Steve straightens his spine and blinks at Bucky. What can he mean? They’ve waited days and days, years, counted endless hours to reach this evening. That Bucky should be the one to waylay them astonishes Steve, and he is unsure whether he should feel angry or ashamed.

(He can hardly tell Bucky that for days, for nigh on a week, he has imagined Bucky carrying him straight to bed without pause, climbing over Steve and claiming him.)

Steve is a newlywed, and confused. “Do I displease you?”

This elicits a swift, immediate reaction from Bucky, who shakes his head, and seems to shake off his reverie. “No, no, you never could. I called you beautiful to all who would hear me, and today you arrived at our wedding like a prince in a child’s tale. I would have overcome dragons and thorns to be at your side.”

“Then why?” Steve wants to embrace Bucky anew, fights instinct because of the turmoil he reads on Bucky’s face. The perfect lines that comprise Bucky should never be so strained. 

“You are too good,” Bucky tells Steve. He speaks all in a rush: “I remembered from when we were children. Oh, we got on famously; but chiefly I remembered that you were good. There was a day when we were playing in the courtyard, and some bigger boys were having a go at a tabby cat. They were throwing stones, and you ran between the stones.” Bucky shakes his head, eyes alight with remembrance. “And I ran after you.”

Steve recalls the day, a jolt of visceral memory. Sacrifice and victory. The intercession of Lord Barnes’ heir had stopped the stones quickly enough. Afterwards he and Bucky took the cat -- Bucky carrying -- to the kitchens, where there was need of good mousers, and secured her a bowl of cream. 

Steve ducks his head, unsure of what else he can add. Bucky resumes his speech as though in monologue on a stage. 

“I knew that you were kind. I did not know that you would be all I dreamed, and challenge me by being stubborn and brave. At every turn you surprise me. Ah, my husband,” and Bucky catches up Steve’s hand, “say that you can forgive me. I have deceived you, and if I do not confess it first I am not a man.”

Steve is frozen, struck in place. Countless thoughts flood his head, and he strategizes and maps every conceivable deviation to prepare for the coming blow. Bucky is already married; or Bucky has children, many children; or the Barnes estate is failing, and the Rogers’ fortune with it; or Bucky has been acting false, performing all along, with some malicious intent.

The man he has come to treasure is incapable of such deeds, Steve knows. Steve shakes his head. His free hand cups Bucky’s cheek. “Confessions imply guilt. Tell me what you would, and we will arrive at a judgment together.”

Bucky gives him a measured stare. He nods, then steps a foot from Steve. He starts to undo the buttons of his jacket.

“Wait,” Steve says. He darts forward to undo the ceremonial sash across Bucky’s chest. He stays close.

It’s doubly worth it for the fiery look Bucky gives him before he commences the removal of costume. Bucky goes slowly, peeling off layers, speaking as hesitantly as he moves. “In the years after you met me I was reckless. I listened to no one’s advice, and thought myself invincible. I mixed with an unruly crowd, and flaunted my arrogance and my ignorance.” He casts his sergeant’s jacket over the side of the chair. 

Steve watches the performance, uncertain of what he’s supposed to see; Bucky’s strapping shoulders under linen are distraction enough.

“I paid a price,” says Bucky. He unhooks the pearlescent buttons that adorn his shirt-front. He still has his wedding gloves on. “My hubris got the better of me. I lead a hunt in foul conditions; we never should have gone out, but I was mad for trophies.” He shivers as his shirt falls open, revealing a smooth chest and hard stomach.

Steve’s mouth is dry as he tries to listen, tries to understand, and attempts to grapple with the cut lines of Bucky’s hipbones. He shifts in place, concentrates on meeting Bucky’s eyes. 

Bucky’s eyes are round and sorrowful, with a distracted air as he gazes into the past. “It was raining hard in the woods, too slippery, icy from the morning frost. Still I gave chase; I lead the charge. My horse went out from under me, and we both went down. My arm was crushed. By the time they got me home there was nothing for it.” 

Steve does not understand. Bucky stands before him tall and broad, without hint of injury. His shoulders are squared and he carried Steve through the house in his strong arms. 

“Forgive me,” says Bucky again, and he pushes off his shirt. 

Bucky’s left shoulder ends in scarred flesh, then merges into metal. His left arm is composed of steel. The arm is a brilliant piece of craftsmanship, machinery such as Steve has never seen. Overlapping plates allow for flexibility of movement, and now, standing close, Steve can hear the faint whir and click of clockwork parts. 

Steve stares. As though he can read Steve’s mind, Bucky wriggles his gloved fingers, showing that he has full dexterity, which should be nigh impossible. 

The artificial arm is the oddest revelation of Steve’s short life, but it is hardly repugnant. It has an alien beauty; it is evident that time and money and genius went into its design. As a part of Bucky Barnes, it is an object to admire and explore. 

Steve reaches out, and he gently removes the leather glove from Bucky’s hand. His left hand has fine shining fingers, rounded and smooth. They bend on flexible joints. Steve slots his fingers with Bucky’s fingers and finds them to be surprisingly warm.

Then Steve tilts up and in, and when Bucky doesn’t shy away, when Bucky looks at him hopefully, Steve presses his lips against Bucky’s metal shoulder. Next he kisses the seam where steel turns to skin. 

Years have blurred the elements and the scars are silvered and faded. Steve kisses where he knows the hurt was agonizing, once. Then he kisses Bucky’s neck, then his mouth; Bucky’s lips are parted, his jaw slack, his expression stunned. 

Steve draws away to smile at his husband. “Is this all?”

Bucky’s jaw works. “Steve.” He lifts his head, which was sunk nearly to his bared breast. “You are not repulsed?” His face is full of wonder. “Are you quite mad?”

“It has been suggested before,” answers Steve, still smiling. But when Bucky won’t relent, when Bucky looks sick with self-doubt and something like loathing, Steve goes on: “Certainly it is unorthodox. Has the world ever seen your like? Yet the arm is only a portion of what combines to make you exceptional.” Steve flicks his gaze back over the finely-wrought metal, which gleams and ticks and suggests secrets, an automaton breathed life by some sorcerer's spell.

Bucky remains silent, and Steve knows then that he was born for this, this moment, this man. It is his mission to relieve the conflict on Bucky’s face, the mixed shame and horror. Steve thought that Bucky had rescued him from a lonely life in the countryside, but the truth is that Bucky is Steve's to save.

Steve takes a breath. Considering their current location, he knows the words will sound provocative. That is why he chooses them. “All of you is beloved and desired.” His cheeks are pink -- but Bucky’s are an even darker rose. “In every way you are ideal to me, James Barnes.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky bends and kisses Steve’s knees, parts his thighs with a reverent hand -- the one made of flesh. “Will I fit you, husband? I can think of little else.”

“ _Steve,_ ” Bucky exhales again, but now his voice is full of equal parts benediction and desperation. He steps forward and lifts Steve a second time, with as little warning as the first; Bucky’s arms and chest are bare, and Steve feels cool, thrumming steel against his skin, wrapped around him. 

Bucky carries him the few steps to the broad bed, and lowers Steve to the snowy linen. Bucky sits beside him. “I have been waking and dreaming of us like this,” he tells Steve, and Steve’s heart may burst. “But you must know --” Now Bucky appears a new kind of discomfited. “I arrive untested to our marriage-bed. If you believed me learned, it is not so.”

An hour ago, Steve would not have believed this pronouncement; Bucky swaggered with sensuality, set all in his path aflutter and basked in the attention. Now that he knows Bucky’s secret, seen the shame on Bucky’s face when he revealed his arm, Steve believes.

“You are a font of revelation.” Steve knows his eyes are huge. His pulse is racing. “What do you--?”

“You,” answers Bucky, moving from his perch to hover over Steve. “I want only you.”

“What prevents you now?” Steve says it softly; Bucky is so close.

“Fear that I will never be able to stop,” Bucky says, leaning in so that his nose and lips graze Steve’s cheek. “Once I have had you, how will I be without you again? The Prince Regent will try to send me on diplomatic missions, and I will say nay. Wars may start and end, for all that I will care.” 

As Bucky speaks his clever hands, one flesh and one of steel, slowly divest Steve of his garments. The silver robe is unknotted, the ivory night-shift slipped off. Bucky exposes him to the light. His eyes range over Steve’s body like a man who is famished put to a feast. “How am I to go about my day, and pretend to care about any other thing, after I have been inside you?” 

Steve bites his tongue, tries not to blush. “It is well that we are wed,” he says drily. “You are obliged to be therein.” 

“When I first saw you, I feared that I would break you in half,” says Bucky, low, caressing Steve’s bared legs. “Now I know that you are strong as any man, and more resilient than any I have met.” 

Bucky does not touch Steve’s cock, which is bigger than the rest of him and half-hard already, though his eyes linger. Steve is slender and short of stature, but he has a wiry musculature from fencing and boxing whenever he is well enough. The naked approval he reads on Bucky’s face is intoxicating as the wine at their feast.

Bucky bends and kisses Steve’s knees, parts his thighs with a reverent hand -- the one made of flesh. “Will I fit you, husband? I can think of little else.”

“I am of a similar preoccupation,” whispers Steve. He finds that he is breathless, aflame to be so uncovered, burning now to know the true nature of his body’s limitations. He reaches up and boldly grasps the belt slung around Bucky’s hips, undoes the brass buckle. He can feel Bucky’s cock straining against his trousers, aroused to readiness by a few kisses and the sight of Steve. Bucky takes the cue, and divests himself of boots and pants; they sail to join the pile where he cast off his shirt. 

Bucky’s body stuns. He is a born Adonis, a youth graced with beauty and health, every inch of him vibrantly alive. He ripples with muscle and vitality, his heroic build following after the ancient ideal. But for the gleaming arm he might be a statue at the museum. Now that Steve sees him whole, the arm only adds to Bucky’s dazzling appeal. He rivals the statues. Steve takes in the sight of him open-mouthed. 

Bucky is enormous. The query about fitting was not spoken in jest. Steve goes red, then quite pale. His hand is questioning as he dares to curl it around Bucky’s cock, long and thick and intended for him. He has never touched anyone else like this.

Steve strokes him gently, curiously, and is amazed when his careful ministrations cause Bucky to tremble above him. Bucky’s hands are fists -- one of flesh, one of steel -- both shaking. He stares at Steve wide-eyed but stays patient, allows Steve to explore him. He gets harder for Steve and feels impossibly larger.

“How will we?” asks Steve. Bucky might have warned him about this along with the arm: _I must mention that I have a limb of steel and a truly monumental cock._ Steve has tried to read what he can about the bedchamber, but the literature is not specific as to this situation. 

“You need to be prepared,” says Bucky, with a flash of his eyes, and perhaps Bucky has done reading of his own. He kneels between Steve’s legs, then reaches for one of their new pillows and slides it under Steve’s hips. Steve, resting on feathers, is keen to spread his thighs. His thighs quiver with arousal and his cock goes fully hard at Bucky’s statement.

With the decisive look that denotes unwavering focus, Bucky ducks his head. His first delicate, tentative lick to Steve’s entrance sends a thrill through them both, and Bucky is quick to repeat. Once assured he is increasingly enthusiastic, as though the task is not at all displeasing. Bucky’s tongue grows bolder, licking, and, testing, travels up the length of Steve’s cock; but he returns to priming Steve for him soon enough. Bucky licks and sucks and swirls, and at the brink of Steve’s endurance edges his tongue inside. 

Steve gasps, his pleasure spiking, his hands burrowing in Bucky’s dark hair to fix him in place. He can feel Bucky smile against his hidden skin. Bucky teases him and teases him open like that a long while; the candles burn low and the shadows of the room grow, and Steve unravels. By the time Bucky replaces his tongue with oil-slick fingers, Steve is so ready that he pleads to have them. 

Fingers are different but as intriguing as tongues. Bucky’s fingers are long and graceful, soft without his ever-present gloves. He balances over Steve and watches with wonder how Steve responds to the twist and stretch. He gets two in, and edges in the third with his eyes watching Steve’s face and the place where they are joined. They are both giddy about it. 

At last there is no waylaying them. Bucky draws free his fingers. He wraps Steve in his arms -- arm: the steel arm cradles Steve. He looks into Steve’s eyes, seeking permission, and Steve’s nod is a touch frantic. Then Bucky reaches with his other hand and lines up his cock, and he sinks into Steve. 

There’s no other way to describe it. Bucky doesn’t push or thrust. He guides his cock inside and then he lets Steve pull him in. Steve is relaxed and made ready, and he welcomes Bucky at once. 

The huge hard length of his cock is much to accommodate, but Steve inhales fresh air and reminds himself that he was born for just this role. There is a sharp knife-edge of pain that recedes as quickly as it appears; Steve’s body is coaxed open and wet from Bucky’s attentions. Exaltant pleasure overcomes discomfort. 

Bucky is silent, as he takes Steve, and is taken; then halfway in Bucky puts his head down on Steve’s shoulder and bites out, “Tell me -- tell me that I can go on--”

“Bucky,” Steve manages, and he hooks him closer by the ankles. “I have also dreamt of us. Like this. Just like this.” The reality is unimaginably better. Steve tells him so. When he lacks the words, he lets his body describe his need, drawing Bucky in to fill him up.

Bucky moans to hear permission spoken, to feel Steve receive him, and with a final turn of his hips he drives home. He buries himself in Steve, all of him accepted, his forehead pressed to Steve’s shoulder. When he is lodged in place he rouses, and he kisses Steve’s mouth, triumphant. His eyes are wide, pupils blown black.

“I fit,” Bucky tells Steve’s cheek, “I fit too well,” and his whole body radiates restraint as he draws out to thrust back in. Steve gives a small sound that Bucky swallows. Steve’s legs belt Bucky’s hips, urging him on, taking him back, unable to do without Bucky for even a breath now that he knows what it is to have him. Bucky had warned that this could be a possibility.

Bucky is still moving slow, slow, even when he has been all the way into Steve three times. The sensation is electrifying, but Steve has the idea Bucky is holding back on his account. Steve has never been in better health, and he is far less fragile than he appears. 

Steve undoes the beribboned plait of Bucky’s hair, letting it spill loose. He combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, admiring the silken strands, then fists his hands decisively and pulls. 

Bucky yields with a start of surprise, shows the long line of his neck. Steve kisses his neck, then down along the left shoulder and to the arm cool under his lips. He cinches Bucky close between his thighs and tries to tighten up around Bucky’s cock, and oh -- oh, that is excellent, that makes Bucky swear and Steve see stars.

“Come deeper,” Steve says, watching Bucky’s face, his hands knotted in Bucky’s hair. “Can you?”

Bucky reacts well to challenges set; his muscles ripple with exertion as he thrusts into Steve to the hilt, the force of him pushing Steve against the pillows. “Is this more to your taste?”

“Try...try it again, and I shall tell you my opinion.”

Bucky laughs softly but does as he’s told, and soon finds that he cannot stop, sliding in and out and in. The laughter fades from his face as he unlocks a faster rhythm. Bucky’s gaze rakes Steve from crown to toe, and he reaches between their sweat-slick bodies and wraps his hand around Steve’s cock. He is balanced over Steve on his metal arm, but Steve has ceased to see it as anything but part of Bucky, and he is far more concerned with another part. He cannot hear the arm tick over the thunderous uproar of his own heartbeat.

“Steve,” Bucky is saying now, in symmetry with his motion, “Steve, Steve,” and Steve will remember this moment more keenly than any other, when their bodies seem to blend and the act becomes instinctual. Who they are and what they were before has ceased to matter. A dividing line is drawn between life then and now and what they will be afterward. 

Bucky moves inside him and it feels so extraordinary that Steve shamelessly urges him to stay the course, to never, ever stop. Steve has grown assured with his passion awakened, and the more ardent Steve’s response, the more Bucky engages in return, their spirited sense of competition carried deliciously into bed. 

Now that they are past embarrassment and exploration, base nature consumes them. There is no more gentleness in Bucky’s drive, but there is tenderness, as he pumps Steve’s cock along with his thrusts. His strokes inside and out are thorough and increasingly possessive, and Steve thrills to feel himself claimed. 

Steve feels bigger than his body, as though his skin is too tight to contain the momentum he and Bucky create together. He knows that he is being dragged close to the edge, and imagines he will go off explosively; the compact they forge is fiery, is fueled by trust and lust and mutual accord. They are both biting their lips to forestall climax, to stay as one for one more moment.

Steve would weep that he is so lucky, after a life where luck took care to elude him. But if he shows tears, Bucky will worry, and stutter to a stop, and even the mere idea of stopping is unbearable. Even so, the inevitable is nearly upon them. Steve swallows to consider it. “Will you spend within me?”

“I will,” Bucky pants, eyes going round, “I will, if that is your desire.”

“I do not ever want to end.”

Bucky’s enormous smile is as maddening as his cock. “Then I shall serve you again, post-haste.”

“Ah, _husband_ \--” The build of it is too much; Steve feels tensed and lit-up all over, and he pushes his head back into the pillow, his spine arching. He starts to push into Bucky’s gripping hand, discovering the perfect amount of friction, while Bucky speeds inside him, sends waves of pleasure to crest through Steve. Steve strains up and up against Bucky until all at once the strain snaps and he is spilling hot over Bucky’s fingers and all the way across their bellies. 

An explosion is apt; Steve closes his eyes, seeing white light, feeling aftershocks strong enough to make him cry out. He knows himself to be unmade, simplified, solved, existing in a state that is ideal but was never his to access before. Steve floats, suspended.

In his mind’s eye he imagines the view from the ceiling, how he could look down and see Bucky’s exquisite body merging into his own, the play of muscles across Bucky’s broad back. The dark flag of Bucky’s hair is flung over his shoulder, and Steve knows even with his eyes closed that Bucky is watching him, searching Steve’s face intently as he comes apart. Bucky has worked diligently to bring him here and will delight in the spoils. 

Steve opens his eyes, and finds all as predicted. Then he reaches the end of his prophetical capacity. Bucky carefully lets go of Steve’s cock, meets Steve’s gaze, brings up his hand, and licks his fingers clean. If Steve were a woman, capable of a second climax, a third, a fourth, the sight would set him off in quick succession. Steve’s spent cock twitches.

“Bucky…” Steve’s arms circle Bucky’s neck and he pulls them closer, accepting the full press of Bucky’s weight, every limb skin-to-skin. “I have never wanted anything so much as to receive you now.”

Bucky kisses him, a hungry, busy kiss packed with all the sentiments words cannot qualify. His rhythm is breaking under the increasing urgency of his hips. He rocks into Steve, on him, covering him, shielding him with his able strength. He doesn’t stop kissing Steve, even when his blue eyes go wide, even when relief strikes his features and transforms him in astonishment. He gives a final thrust into Steve that goes so far the air is knocked out of them, then his cock pulses and he fills Steve with his warmth. 

Steve tightens his arms and legs around Bucky, helping him ride out the last echoes; Bucky keeps kissing him through it, refuses to keep still, as though they needn’t be done even as he softens within Steve. He only draws away, reluctant, when he starts to slip free, and so he leans back on his knees to take himself out properly. 

Now that they are through it Bucky’s fierce concern for him replaces primal need, and he is solicitous of Steve, his actions gentled and gentlemanly. He fetches a basin of water and a cloth, and attends to Steve with delicate grace, while Steve’s ears turn red; the act feels as intimate as anything they have done this night. Clean, Bucky slides into bed and hooks Steve close to him. Bucky kisses everywhere he can -- Steve’s collarbone, his chin, the top of his nose; he is set on returning to Steve’s mouth.

Steve laughs against him. When he can slip a word in, he says, “Was it not enough to win me? Do you mean to keep me awake with this incessant kissing?” But this time, he kisses Bucky, and puts his tongue into Bucky’s encouraging mouth. 

Bucky halts the kiss to insist: “It will never be enough. I must have you every day, else go mad.” His sigh has a dramatic air, and Steve can sense his grin. “I am resigned to my fate.”

“It is also mine,” says Steve.

“You must have me, too,” Bucky agrees, his eyes glittering. The suggestion in his tone sparks a conflagration in Steve’s head that shows on his flushed face. Steve opens his mouth, closes it, then Bucky spares him further teasing by growing serious. “My heart is in your keeping, Steve. It will be my duty every day to prove worthy of you.”

“My heart was given when we were small,” Steve replies. “It grew big with you. Say only that we will face the days as a team together, and at night--”

“It is nighttime still,” Bucky reminds, his hands ranging across Steve’s skin. “I would measure out the hours in kissing and fucking you, and forswear clocks.” The vulgar word on his husband's refined lips sounds delicious, and Steve tests the theory by leaning in to taste. 

Later, Steve will sleep within the circle of Bucky’s arms, and if he dreams it is of no consequence, given such a waking life.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come stroll through gaslit alleyways with me on [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com). Thanks so much for your encouragement and feedback on this journey into the sexy quasi-past. I love you all a lot for reading.


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